'We do it for ourselves,' said its neighbors.
And they were whispering again, using those quick dessicated voices, their plaything-puzzle suddenly transformed, everything about their tiny universe made fascinating again, and inside this stuffy room, everything was enormous.
Forty
To
WATCHFUL EYES,
they were another anonymous repair crew: several dozen Remoras happily imprisoned inside their bulky lifesuits, sitting shoulder to shoulder inside one of their tough old skimmers, every face different from its neighbors's faces, everyone telling good filthy Remoran jokes as they made their way toward the ship's leading face.
'How many captains does it take to fuck?' one asked.
'Three,' the others shouted. 'Two to do it, while the third captain hands out the appropriate awards and citations!'
'Where does the Master send her shit?' asked another.
Everyone pointed at the nearest of the rocket nozzles, then broke into a familiar, half-amused giggle.
Then Orleans leaned forward, asking, 'What's the difference between the new Master and the old one?'
There was an abrupt silence. Everyone knew the question, but nobody recognized the joke. Which wasn't surprising, since the old man had just dreamed it up.
His newest mouth pulled into an enormous smile, short tusklike teeth tapping against the faceplate. 'Any ideas? No?' Then he let off a big laugh, telling them, 'Our new Master came back from the dead. While the old one was never alive.'
Polite, if somewhat nervous laughter gave way to silence.
Pivoting his helmet, Orleans showed his face to the crew. On a public channel, he told them, 'It wasn't very funny. You're right.' But on a scrambled private channel, he said, 'Don't dwell on things.' He told them, 'We'll be dead soon enough. Relax.'
Nervousness mutated into a useful determination. No, they were thinking, th
ey wouldn't die. His crew's outl
ook was betrayed by their straight-backed postures an
d defiant fists. These were mostl
y youngsters, and most still believed they could fool death by culturing a positive attitude along with their innate cleverness and deserved good fortune. 'Not me,' each thought.'I won't die today.'
Then one after another, they turned their faces toward the rocket's nozzle, looking at its vastness, and at the brilliant column of fight - the new Master's farts — the light dwarfing everything els
e, splitting the universe neatl
y in two.
Only Orleans ignored the spectacle. He kept his amber eyes focused on the blisterlike buildings that flanked the wide roadway. In a rare mood, he found himself feeling sentimental, recalling that when he was a youngster, he thoroughly expected to be dead by now. Vaporized by an impact comet, probably. The idea that he could outlive everyone in his generation . . . well, it didn't seem like a possibility then. Such an impossibly long life would prove a Remora's cowardice, or at least a crippling sense of caution. Yet Orleans was neither a coward nor a worrier, and he had a sharp disrespect for luck, good and otherwise.
Over the centuries, then the millenia, he had seen friends die without warning or a fair chance. He h
ad outl
ived children and grandchildren, then descendants who carried a tiny fraction of his unique seeds. But it wasn't luck that had carried him this far. Not good luck, or its evil mate. What was to blame, undoubtedly, was the universe's own magnificent, seamless indifference.
Orleans was too small to be noticed.
Too insignificant to send a comet plummeting his way.
His was a faith rich with logic and an ascetic's beauty, and until this moment, it seemed to be a durable, determined faith. But suddenly a second possibility had crawled into view. Perhaps, just perhaps, some great Fate had long ago taken Orleans under its protective shroud, saving him for this day and this moment, making it possible for him to make this inconspicuous journey across the ship's vast and stark and enchanting hull.
The city wasn't even a name when Orleans was born. But today it was large enough that leaving it seemed to take forever. Building after blister-shaped building streaked past. Hyperfiber homes, for the most part. Minimalist places with walls and a roof, hard vacuum and ample privacy, where couples and other mating configurations contributed their seeds, babies born inside hyperfiber wombs that expanded as needed, both child and machine developing hands and legs, and a head, and deemed 'born' during a day-long celebration that culminated when a fully functioning reactor and recycle system were strapped onto the Remora's wide back.
Between the homes were the rare shops hawking what few wares could entice citizens who had absolutely no need for food or drink, and who disapproved of most possessions. Other structures were assembled from clear diamond, and unlike buildings, they were sealed against the vacuum. Sealed and stocked with a variety of species, terran and otherwise. Every organism was nominally immortal, and under the rain of hard radiations and the force of simple time, they had mutated in chaotic fashions, yielding a wild assortment of shapes and unlikely colors, and unexpected, sometimes entertaining behaviors.
Remoran parks, in essence.
The largest park was on the city's fringe, and as they passed that blur of color and shape, Orleans told himself to go there and take a look at its inhabitants. Who knew? Perhaps he would find inspiration for his next self-induced transformation.
The skimmer streaked into the open, accelerating to its limits.
Time moved sluggishly, stubbornly. Again, then again, Orleans showed his face to his crew, and on the scrambled channel, he forced them to repeat their timetable and describe each of their critical jobs. Then for the first time, he finally looked at their target, and he allowed himself a deep quick breath, holding his personal atmosphere inside lungs that were only glancingly human — lungs built by a lifetime of carefully directing mutations that gave them and their slow black blood an efficiency bordering on perfection.
The Remoran ideal.
Like thousands of skimmers in the past, theirs was slipping close to the giant nozzle, taking them toward the ship's leading face. A slab of scrap hyperfiber lay in the open. Even at their enormous speed, the AI pilot should have had time to notice it, and react. But the AI - old and notorious for its failures - announced that it was ill, and a human would have to drive from this point on.
In those critical moments, the slab cocked itself, then sprang up.
Engulfed by the skimmer's forcefield, it spun once, then was driven into the diamond body, slicing into machinery and knocking both reactors off-line.
In less than three kilometers, the skimmer dropped to the hull and stopped.
Within moments, an automated plea was sent, and an empty skimmer began navigating its way though city traffic, making for the crippled vessel. And just to make the drama more genuine, the Remoran dispatcher laughed at the crew's misery and embarrassment, telling a favorite old joke.
'Why's the sky full of stars?'
Several dozen recorded voices replied in a carefully ragged chorus.
'To entertain Remoras!' they screamed. 'While we wait for fucking parts!'
Forty-one
Washen could tell
, even at a distance, even though they were wearing the bruise-black uniforms of security troops, and their skin was gradually losing its smoky cast as the ship's lights and new foods worked on their flesh; with all
that, Washen could still see them for what they were. Waywards.
The two-engine burn was half-finished,, and five Waywards were calmly working their way down the narrow avenue. If Washen was as obvious as they, she was doomed. The next pair of staring eyes would spot her, and a narrow burst of laser light would boil away her new body, and whatever was left would be carried straight to the new Master, Washen s miseries just beginning. But she reminded herself that she didn't stand out, even a little bit. She had a name and robust identity that would absorb every scrutiny. She was wearing a mask of someone else's skin, giving her an appearance designed not to draw attention. What's more, Washen had ceased to be. The first-grade captain was thousands of years dead. The Loyalist leader died more than a century ago. If she was especially fortunate, both of these women had been forgotten, wiped into a delicious anonymity that in the fullness of time would claim everyone who happened to be sitting here today.
'Delicious,' she muttered.
'What is?' asked one of her companions.
'The ice cream,' she allowed, smiling as she dipped her spoon back into the melting brown mound. Then with an understated honesty, she said, 'It's been a little while since I enjoyed a good chocolate.'
Pamir nodded agreeably. He was wearing a handsome face, and like Washen, he wore a simple dark ochre robe that made them look like clergy members in any of several different Rationalist faiths. As clergy members, they were ready to proselytize with the slightest encouragement, which was why most of their fellow passengers tried to avoid small talk with them. It was the perfect identity for two humans who needed to hide in the bustling heart of the ship.
The third member of their
little
party was even more imposing. Massive and towering, he lifted a mug of something rancid and took a few long swallows down his eating hole, while
his breathing hole quietly whistl
ed a few words.
'It is a beautiful place, this place,' his translator declared.
Pamir glanced at Washen, allowing himself a knowing grin. Then he stared at the harum-scarum's face, asking, 'How's your drink?'
The alien was
mostly
heated plastic and hidden motors. Locke was tucked inside the long body, his legs tied back and arms bound at his sides. Everything that the harum-scarum would see, he saw. Everything it heard was piped into his ears. But his mouth was filled with a permeable plastic, and a small AI told the machine when to move and what to say. Locke was a passenger inside that automaton. He was cargo. Since the early days of the ship, devices of this ilk had smuggled things illegal and precious. According to Pamir, this was the best model on hand — considering the limits of time and their very special needs.
The false voice whistl
ed, answering Pamir's question. 'My drink is beautiful,' said the box on the broad chest.
'And what's beauty?' asked Washen, sounding very much like a proselytizer. 'Do you remember what we told you, friend?'
'The residue of reason mixed in a sea of chaos,' their companion answered.
'Precisely,' said the humans, in a shared voice, both dipping spoons into their beautiful desserts. Then Washen stared off at the Waywards, saying,
'Chaos,' to herself, under her quickening breath.
Walking the avenue
, watching aliens and strange humans going about their very strange lives, the Waywards struggled to retain a sense of total control. No, they didn't come
from a backward world. No, they weren't awed by the endless cosmopolitan landscape that was the Great Ship. In their smiling faces and grim, staring eyes, they showed nothing but a cocky toughness common to police officers anywhere. And elaborate sensors automatically probed and prodded the strange bodies around them, teasing out their secrets, proving that there was nothing here to be feared. And yet.
Behind the eyes was a nervousness, childlike and almost endearing.
As they approached the cafe, Washen studied them with nothing but her own eyes and experience. Obviously, the five Waywards had spent their short lives making ready for today. For this particular walk. They'd always known that they would board the Great Ship, reclaiming it for the Builders.
They had studied their roles and practiced a thousand scenarios to exhaustion — scenarios designed by Miocene, no doubt - and like children anywhere, they couldn't help but accept this day with a rigorous lack of imagination.
Of course they were here. Of course they ruled the ship! After all, this moment had been promised to them by Till and the dead Builders. From the moment they were born, and in every spoken word . . . !
But despite simulations and every carefully entombed lesson, the reality of this place was beginning to slam down on their inexperienced heads: a whiff-Kon saluted them with its tail, and one young man jerked his hand, ready to fend off an imagined blow. A golden rilly bird landed on one of their armored shoulders, wanting to sing for food and getting nothing but a quick shove for its trouble. Then a human child, perhaps knowing a little something about Waywards, said, 'For you,' He was sitting at a nearby table, and he said,
'A gift, sir .'Then he handed up a wide, greenish
-
brown beetle. No, it was a cockroach. Something that the child had caught under the cafe tables, probably.
The Wayward accepted the gift and pointed sensors at its body and kicking legs. Then he glanced at his companions, and receiving no suggestions, he did what must have seemed like the polite thing.
He pushed the roach into his mouth, and chewed.
What was a quiet avenue became deathly silent. Passengers and a few off-duty crew members held their breath until the Wayward swallowed. By then, he sensed that he had guessed wrong, and for a moment, he was lost. What should he do
now?
But then some teacher's sage advice came back to him, and he said, 'What a wonderful flavor.' He said it with a humble charm. Then he laughed, working desperately to expose his embarrassment to his very tense audience.